


On the Rocks

by dance_across



Category: due South
Genre: Drunk Fraser, First Kiss, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 14:40:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,946
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4750106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dance_across/pseuds/dance_across
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was Ray Vecchio who first introduced Constable Benton Fraser to Mr. Jack Daniels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Rocks

It was Ray Vecchio who first introduced Constable Benton Fraser to Mr. Jack Daniels.

Not that Ben had never had a drink before—he certainly had—but before this, there had always been a reason. A legitimate reason, that is, not a selfish personal one. A sip of brandy taken, and the rest poured out, for a deceased fellow officer. A glass of sparkling wine raised to a friend getting married. Never anything for himself, though. Not until the day Ray said, “Hey, Benny, I’m done with my meds tomorrow. What say you and me go out for a little drink? Raise a little toast and hope the insurance gods feel like smiling on me?”

Ben, who’d finished both his prescription and his physical therapy over a week ago, frowned at Ray over his pizza. “You know I don’t drink.”

“Sure,” said Ray, “but come on, how often do you get to celebrate both you and your best buddy still being alive after getting a pair of bullets stuck in you _and_ surviving a plane crash?”

This, Ben thought, was a valid point. In addition to which, three days still remained before he had to report for duty again, which meant more than ample recovery time should the alcohol have an adverse effect on him. So, contrary to every expectation he’d ever had of himself, he found himself replying, “Of course, Ray. I’d be honored to join you.”

Ray tried, the next night at the bar, to order something sweet for Ben. A cocktail laden with fruit, so that Ben’s taste buds, unused to liquor as they were, wouldn’t feel too assaulted. But Ben stopped him. He didn’t want to mask the taste of whatever he was about to imbibe. It would feel too dishonest. So he and Ray ended up with a whiskey apiece, brown liquid slowly melting the single ice cubes that rested within each glass.

“To you, Ray,” said Ben, holding his glass aloft. “For saving my life. Twice.”

“Even if I almost killed you in the process,” said Ray, and clinked his glass against Ben’s.

They drank. And as they drank, Ben could feel a slight loosening of his muscles, particularly in his back and his neck. He could feel a certain lethargy in his tongue, which meant he would have to speak more precisely in order to counteract it. But perhaps most extraordinary was the way he found himself saying, suddenly, all the things that he’d pointedly kept held back since the bullet had hit him.

“Do you think she was evil, Ray?”

(“Nah, Benny, nah,” was Ray’s reply. “Doesn’t stop me from hating her guts, though.”)

“I loved her. I honestly did. I don’t think I’ve ever loved anyone as much as I loved her.”

(“Sure, and eventually you’ll love someone else even more. You’ll find someone just as pretty who _talks_ to you when she’s pissed instead of shooting your wolf. Promise.”)

“If you hadn’t come after me…”

(“But I did, right? I got your back, Benny. Hey, get it? _Got your back_?”)

It was remarkable, the way whiskey meant that Ben could be honest about what had happened, and that Ray could joke about it, instead of becoming quiet and cagey, as he’d always done before. One whiskey became two, and then Ben switched to water as Ray ordered a third. They talked long into the night, and with the very last sip of his very last drink, Ray raised another toast.

“To Victoria,” he said solemnly. “May she never fuck up your life again.”

Ben clinked his water glass against Ray’s whiskey glass, and as they drank in silence, Ben was astonished at the feeling of peace that washed over him. It felt like a funeral, even though Victoria, to the best of his knowledge, wasn’t dead. It felt like closure.

As they settled up and left, Ben was beyond relieved that his friendship with Ray was still intact. Everything was out in the open, with no bad blood left between them. Ray was a good man, and a good partner. Losing him would have devastated Ben more than he’d been prepared to admit.

With himself, though, he was far less at peace. Was this the sort of person he became when he fell in love? Reckless, depressive, untrustworthy, the sort of person who needed whiskey to aid him in expressing himself?

Alone in his apartment that night, with only Diefenbaker as a witness, Ben resolved aloud that he would never fall in love again.

-

Then came Stanley Raymond Kowalski, who went by Ray and was supposed to be Ray Vecchio but was so utterly different from the real Ray Vecchio that it flipped Ben’s universe upside down.

Vecchio was all swagger and smirk and Armani and _Benny_ in his thick Italian-American accent. And he was comforting. Vecchio was the most comforting presence Ben had ever known.

But Kowalski was… Ben didn’t know what Kowalski was.

Beautiful, maybe.

Only he didn’t ever stay still long enough to be properly beautiful. No, Kowalski was _electric_. He was darting eyes and coiled muscles and untamable hair and strange glasses and dark humor and and and.

And nothing. Kowalski also had a mouth that refused to trust anybody, and an ex-wife with whom he was obviously still in love. Ben would continue to keep his distance, keep their relationship purely professional, and that would be that.

Except Ray’s relationship with Stella proved to be more the remnants of habit than actual love, and Ray’s untrusting mouth began to soften and smile when it was just him and Ben alone together, and Ben began to wonder if electricity and beauty were as mutually exclusive as he’d originally thought, because—

Because—

 _Because_ there was a robbery case today, and they solved it, the two of them together, and because Leftenant Welsh commended them both on their good work, and after it was over Ray raised his hand for a high five, which Ben awkwardly gave him, and then instead of letting go Ray grasped his hand and held it for longer than Ben was expecting, and then Ray winked at him, _winked_ , like they had a _secret_ , and logically Ben knew this was just the bravado that Ray donned like a cloak when he was feeling good about his work, logically he _still knows_ this, but there’s a part of his brain that keeps insisting on removing these gestures from their natural context and rearranging them entirely, until they mean—

And it isn’t as though Ben _wants_ them to mean—

“Ride back to Canada?” says Ray, shrugging his jacket on.

Trying not to stare at Ray’s smiling mouth, Ben says, “No, thank you. I’d prefer to walk.”

“Suit yourself,” Ray says. “Then see you tomorrow?”

Tomorrow. Will Ray wink tomorrow? Will he grasp Ben’s hand longer than other people do? Will he wear that easy smile, and will Ben have to spend all day trying not to notice it?

“See you tomorrow,” agrees Ben.

He does not go back to the Consulate. Instead, he heads straight for Ray Vecchio’s favorite pub.

-

“I’ll have a Mr. Jack Daniels, please,” says Ben, settling himself on stool furthest from the front door. He sat on this very same stool the day after Ray Vecchio was declared recovered and fit for active duty.

The bartender, whose name is Karen, laughs. “Cute.”

“What is?” asks Ben.

Karen’s answer is to slide the bottle off the shelf and show it to Ben, who immediately realizes his mistake.

 _Constable Benton Fraser, meet Mr. Jack Daniels._ Ben did not, at the time, realize that Ray Vecchio was joking.

“Oh,” he says. “My apologies.”

“It’s all good,” says Karen. “Neat?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Karen grins wide, and the sudden softness in her eyes reminds him uncomfortably of Frannie. “Ice or no ice?” she translates.

“Ice,” says Ben. “One cube, please.”

“Jack on the rocks,” says Karen. “Coming right up.”

The glass is exactly the shape that Ben remembers. He smiles, lifts it, and murmurs, “To you, Ray. May you keep yourself safe, wherever you are.”

Then, as if summoned, Ray walks in.

Granted, it’s ten minutes later, not right away, so _summoned_ is perhaps not the right word. And it’s not Ray Vecchio. Obviously it’s not Ray Vecchio. It’s Ray Kowalski who walks in, Ray Kowalski who saunters up to the bar and greets Karen by name, Ray Kowalski who orders a beer (“Whatever you got on draft that ain’t Stella”), Ray Kowalski who turns his head to investigate his surroundings (a bar mostly empty, but for a pair of women having quite a heated conversation at a table across the room), and Ray Kowalski who spots Ben, perched warily on his corner stool.

Ray blinks and blinks, like a man in the desert trying to tell mirage from reality. Then he says, “Well, holy shit, buddy, what are you doing here?”

Closure. That’s the simplest answer. Ben came here to have a drink, just as he did that night with Ray Vecchio, and to put a definitive end to his latest episode of inadvisable affection. 

Now that Ray Kowalski-not-Vecchio is here, though, any plan he might have had promptly disappears. How can one wash affection away with whiskey, when the object of said affection is right here? Impossible. Ben ought to leave.

But Ray grabs his beer from Karen. Ray moves toward Ben. Ray smiles and sits on the stool beside him and holds up his glass. Ben realizes, about two beats too late, that he is meant to toast.

“Ah. Yes. Cheers.”

“ _Na zdrowie_ ,” replies Ray.

Ben manages a smile. “ _Sláinte_.”

“Uh… yeah, I dunno any more toasts,” says Ray, and takes a gulp of his beer.

“I knew you were of Polish descent.” Ben’s hand grips his glass hard; somehow this manages to loosen the tension in his throat, and his voice comes out easy. “I hadn’t realized you spoke the language as well.”

“I don’t, really,” says Ray. “Just the parts about drinking. Thanks, Dad.”

“Ah,” says Ben, and takes a sip of his whiskey. It’s nearly gone by now, and Ben can feel his senses becoming blurrier, his muscles becoming looser. Exactly as he wanted. Except now he doesn’t want it anymore, because last time—well, last time he ended up sharing all his innermost feelings with Ray (Vecchio), and while that was a necessary unburdening, he does not want to repeat the same experience with Ray (Kowalski), because the feelings in question are very, very different indeed.

 _Electric_ , thinks Ben, and downs the rest of his whiskey in one gulp. It burns his throat. Good.

“Whoa,” murmurs Ray, watching Ben with some kind of fascination.

“Another Mr. Jack?” calls Karen from the other end of the bar.

 _No_ , thinks Ben, and then says, for some reason, “Yes, please.”

Ray’s eyebrows shoot up. “Something up with you?”

Ben crafts the most genuine smile he can muster. “Of course not, Ray. I merely wanted to enjoy a Jack in the rocks after a hard day’s work.”

Ray’s forehead crinkles, but Karen gets there first: “Jack _on_ the rocks.” She sets his new drink down in front of him.

“ _On._ Yes, I’m sorry. _On_ the rocks.”

Ray is staring at him now, and Ben knows, he _knows_ he is behaving strangely. Strangely even for him. He needs to stop. He closes his eyes, lifts his glass, breathes in slowly, takes a small sip, and breathes out again. He wills his heartbeat to slow back to normal. He wills himself not to feel the weight of Ray watching him, worrying about him, wondering if he’ll talk.

When he opens his eyes again, Ray’s beer is one-third gone. He’s still watching Ben. The corners of his eyes are crinkled with worry, and his brows have drawn together. Ben wants so much to reach up and smooth the skin at the center of Ray’s forehead. To stop him worrying. To make him smile that easy smile.

Ben realizes he’s staring; he looks down and rolls his glass between his hands. The patterns in his slowly-melting ice cube remind him of home.

“Hey, Fraser,” says Ray. “You got something that needs talking about, you know I’m here for you, right?”

Ben shakes his head, still rolling his glass. He can’t talk to Ray. Not about this. About almost anything else, certainly, but not this. Never this.

“Ah, shit. Shit, you wanted to be by yourself, didn’t you.” Ray stands up, and somewhere deep inside Ben, something panics. “You wanted to be alone, and here I am, showing up and messing with it. Look, you don’t gotta be polite at me, okay? I respect a guy needing time by himself. So just tell me to skedaddle, and that’s what I’ll do.”

Ray leaving is the last thing Ben wants. The last thing in the world. Of course, that is exactly the problem, and Ben knows this—which is why he makes himself nod: _Yes, please go._ It’s for the best. It will always be for the best, Ray leaving Ben alone. _Everyone_ leaving Ben alone.

“Okay,” says Ray, and chugs his beer. “But if you change your mind? About the talking thing? You let me know.”

Then Ray puts his hand on Ben’s arm, just above the wrist, and he squeezes. A gesture of solidarity, of partnership, except it’s _skin_ , it’s _contact_ , and there Ray goes again, letting his hand linger. Letting his long fingers skim the hair on Ben’s arm, gently, tenderly, almost like—

Ben’s other hand shoots out and traps Ray’s hand against his arm.

He can’t breathe. He can’t stand the thought of Ray staying, but even more intolerable is the thought of Ray leaving. Ray, electric and beautiful and utterly off limits, touching his arm and then walking away.

Ben makes himself breathe. He makes himself think. Logically, even if Ben were to cross the uncrossable line between them and tell Ray how he feels, Ray would turn him down. Obviously he would; Ray likes women, probably exclusively. And even if Ray were to prove responsive to the idea of being something more than friends and partners, it would take Ben too far out of himself. He would neglect his work, abandon his friends, end up with another bullet in his back….

He made a _promise._

“Fraser?” says Ray quietly.

Ben realizes that his hand is still clasped over Ray’s. He withdraws it quickly, like lips from scalding tea.

“I’m sorry,” he says shakily, still looking at Ray’s hand against his skin. “I didn’t mean to—yes, you should—you should go.”

And still Ray lingers. Watching. His mouth works, lips tightening in the same way they do when Ray is considering evidence, drawing conclusions, figuring out what his next move is.

“Please go,” says Ben again, as firmly as he can.

But Ray just frowns. Then sits down again. Then says, “Another round, Karen?”

Incensed, Ben says, “Didn’t you hear me—”

“Heard you fine,” says Ray smoothly. “But no way in hell am I leaving my best buddy—my _partner_ —no _way_ am I leaving you alone when you’re like this. Give it to me straight. What happened?”

 _Straight_. Ben can’t help it; he laughs. And the sound of his laughter, high and strange and tinny in his ears, makes him laugh that much harder.

Straight indeed.

“Fraser…”

“No, no, I’m sorry, it’s, ah…”

“Fraser, did I do something? Is it me?” That stops Ben laughing right away, and Ray frowns and goes on: “’Cause I ain’t always good at spotting when I screwed up. You gotta tell me.”

Now, even the urge to laugh is gone, because here’s Ray, dear Ray, thinking _he’s_ the one who made a mistake.

“No, of course not, Ray. It’s not you. It’s…” He lets more whiskey burn a path down his throat. “It’s me.”

Beside him, Ray huffs out a laugh. “‘It’s not you, it’s me,’” he intones, in what Ben imagines might be an attempt at imitating a Canadian accent. “Hardy-ha-ha. What are we, breaking up?”

Ray says this last with a playful nudge of his fist against Ben’s arm, and Ben wants to laugh at the joke, he really does, but its proximity to the truth kills the sound before it can escape his throat. They are, in a sense, breaking up. Even if they’ve never been together, even if Ray doesn’t know it, Ben is breaking up with… well, with his idea of what Ray could have been to him.

Ben finishes his second glass of whiskey in one more gulp, thinking that he ought to deflect Ray’s comment. He ought to at least make himself laugh. But his throat is still tight, and he can’t _say_ anything, and when Karen comes over and slides another whiskey his way with a murmured “On the house, friend,” he can’t even summon the strength to thank her. All his energy, everything that he is, is focused on maintaining his composure in front of his partner.

There follows the press of a hand on his back. Through the leather of his jacket and the flannel of his shirt, he can feel Ray’s palm, rubbing slow circles just below his shoulders. It’s such a small gesture, but its significance glares like headlights through fog. Ray _cares_. And that’s really the whole problem, isn’t it?

This time, Ben doesn’t sip. Using his teeth as a barrier against the ice cube, he downs his third glass in a single shot.

“Might want to slow down, hmm?” says Ray, gently, almost delicately.

“Can’t,” says Ben, and raises his arm to get Karen’s attention.

But Ray grabs his arm and lowers it again, shaking his head. “Come on, Fraser. Don’t make yourself sick, okay? You’ll regret it in the morning. Trust me.”

“Still better than a bullet in my back,” Ben murmurs. His eyes are fixed on Ray’s hand, which is gripping Ben’s arm, just like before. Only before he wasn’t _gripping_ , at least not like this. Only touching. And Ray has such strong hands. Lovely hands.

“A bullet?” says Ray. “The hell you talking about?”

“Last time,” begins Ben hazily, and watches in fascination as his other hand—just like before—reaches over to trap Ray’s. Except, no, not _trapping_ , and not _just_ like before, because this time he isn’t trying to stop Ray from going anywhere. His fingers skate over the contours of Ray’s knuckles. The contrast between bone and muscle. The smoothness of his nails.

“Last time what?” said Ray quietly. He doesn’t move his hand.

Ben’s fingers move toward Ray’s wrist, glancing against his bracelet, and then he registers the question. “Last time I…” He can feel the whiskey inside him, conspiring with itself to rob him of his vocabulary. “Last time…” Ulna. Radius. His index finger traces the bumps made by each.

“Funny,” says Ray, “usually drinking makes people louder. You, though—just figures it would make you quieter.”

Ben doesn’t feel quiet. He feels like there’s a blizzard gathering inside his head. He presses his finger into the soft skin between Ray’s thumb and Ray’s index finger, and he doesn’t reply.

Ray turns his hand over, and Ben suddenly finds his fingertips cradled in the dip of Ray’s palm. The warmth of it shocks him enough that he sucks in a breath.

Ray shifts a little on his stool, but doesn’t move his hand. His hand, his hand, his hand. It’s painfully warm. Ben wants to press his cheek into it. He wants that hand to thaw him from the outside in.

“Okay, but seriously,” says Ray, “what’s going on with you?”

For the first time since that third whiskey, Ben raises his eyes to look at Ray. And finds Ray looking back. For once, Ray is utterly still. He’s waiting. His eyes search Ben’s face, and his brows are drawing together again, and Ben scrambles to rearrange his features. He must collect himself, compose himself. He mustn’t let Ray see what the mere touch of his hand is making him feel.

Except Ray’s eyes are already widening, his lips already parting, and, oh, he knows. He knows, and the sight of Ray knowing sets Ben’s heart to trembling, and why isn’t Ray moving his hand away? Why?

His hand closes around Ben’s fingers. Warm. So warm. “Fraser,” he says, leaning close, “are you not saying what I think you’re not saying?”

Ben wants to say yes, for so many reasons. He wants to say no, for so many others. He wants to weep; he wants to pull his hand away and sever their connection; he wants to kiss Ray’s palm; he wants to kiss Ray’s lips; he wants _so much_ , and he doesn’t _want_ to want any of it at all.

He swallows.

“Because,” says Ray, “me too.”

“You…?” Ben blinks because, _no_ , that isn’t how this is supposed to go. “But I’m not…”

“You’re not what?” asks Ray. “And may I just say, by the by, that I am very much enjoying being the articulate one for once?”

Ray is clearly joking, but once again, Ben finds himself incapable of laughter. Ray is right: Ben has lost the power of speech, and of reason. His thoughts are muzzy, and his whole body is consumed in the touch of Ray’s palm against his fingertips, and—

This was a terrible idea. 

Ben removes a twenty from his hat and puts it on the bar: enough to cover his first two drinks, plus double the tip for the free third one. And then, without another word, he stands up and walks out the front door.

The sidewalk is largely empty of people, a fact for which Ben is grateful. He does not want to be distracted by his own watchfulness tonight. He simply wants to go back to the Consulate and go to sleep.

But apparently that’s too much to ask, because only a few seconds pass before Ray’s voice catches up to him. “Fraser.” The sound of footsteps breaking into a run, coming closer. Ben speeds up. “Hey. Fraser, hey! You forgot this.”

 _Forgot_? This isn’t a word Ben usually associates with himself; the incongruity makes him turn around. And there is Ray, standing far too close. He is wearing Ben’s Stetson on his head.

“You left it on the bar,” says Ray, grinning crookedly. “Figured you might want it back.”

Ben stares. His hat. How could he have forgotten it? He reaches out and snatches it off Ray’s head; Ray reaches up to adjust his hair accordingly.

“Also,” he continues, cocking his head to the side, “you owe me twenty bucks.”

“Do I?” Ben manages to say.

“Uh huh. You paid her in Canadian money, which, yeah, turns out they don’t really accept that stuff in American bars, Fraser. So I covered for you.”

Canadian money. Ben sighs. He thought he’d broken himself of that habit years ago. And he _has_ American money somewhere, surely he does….

“I’m so sorry, Ray,” he says. “I didn’t mean to inconvenience you.”

“That’s not what I’m getting at, buddy,” says Ray, stepping closer. “What I’m getting at is this ain’t you. And no way am I letting you go home alone like this. Here, I’m parked back at the station. Let me drive you.”

Ben shakes his head. “Not a good idea.” He realizes, then, that he’s backing away from Ray.

And that Ray’s face is clouding over.

“Yeeeah,” says Ray. “Okay. I get it.”

Ben blinks. “I only want to clear my head. Fresh air. A walk. I’m not used to processing this much alcohol. Or any alcohol, for that matter.” Words! Sentences! Apparently being outside is already doing him good.

“Uh-huh,” says Ray. “And a nice convenient excuse to get away from me.”

Well. Yes. That’s exactly it. But there’s an odd bitterness in Ray’s tone, and Ben is suddenly certain that there’s something else going on here. Something far bigger than Ben’s own need to get away.

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“I mean don’t ask, don’t tell, right?” says Ray, shoving his hands deep in his jacket pockets. “You didn’t ask, but I told anyway. So that’s on me. I get that. I do. I guess I just thought you’d be more… you know. _Canadian_ about it. _Nice_ , instead of just hauling ass out the door. Even if you aren’t on the same page, which obviously you’re not, so I guess that’s on me, too—but you’re still fucking drunk, and you are not walking home alone, so I don’t care how uncomfortable I’m making you, I’m still driving you home.”

“Uncomfortable?” echoes Ben, as an ugly thought begins to bloom in the back of his mind.

Ray’s lips twist. “I won’t try anything on you,” he says snidely. “No funny business. Promise.”

Funny business. Uncomfortable. Don’t ask, don’t…

He understands. All at once, Ben understands.

“Ray,” he breathes. “Ray, no, oh dear, no…”

“Car’s this way.” Ray spins around and begins walking briskly away.

For a moment, Ben can’t move. He can’t breathe. All he can do is watch as Ray, shoulders hunched, visibly pained, walks away from him.

Their hands. Their two hands touching, back in the bar.

 _Me too,_ Ray had told him. And Ben had meant to reply, _But I’m not allowed to fall in love, not again, not after what happened last time,_ only the words had caught, and Ray had heard something else entirely, and, god, Ben had hurt him, and that simply wouldn’t do. That wouldn’t do at _all._

Ben runs. He catches Ray by the shoulder and spins him around, and Ray coils under his hands. His face is lined, his arms ready to fight, and there’s sadness and anger and resignation, all etched into the lines around his mouth, into the creased skin between his brows.

Ben takes Ray’s face in his hands. Bare palms against stubbled cheeks. And before he can stop himself, before he can remember his idiotic promise, he leans up and presses his lips to Ray’s forehead. And he keeps them there, until he can feel Ray’s skin smoothing out beneath his touch—until he hears Ray’s voice saying, softly, “Oh.”

Only then does he pull away.

Ray’s eyes are wide. He isn’t smiling—not quite—but he doesn’t look angry anymore, either. For a moment, he just stares at Ben.

Ben lets him.

Finally, Ray says, “So I was right.”

Ben nods.

“So why…?”

Ben scratches his eyebrow, casting about for a suitable excuse for how he behaved—for why he allowed Ray to misunderstand him. But no. _No_. There’s no excuse. There’s only truth. And Ray, of all people, deserves truth.

“I think I might love you,” says Ben simply. “And I am not, historically speaking, a person who deals well with being in love.”

There’s silence. Then Ray bursts out laughing. “Buddy, there ain’t a person alive who’s good at being—Wait, did you say you’re—”

“Yes.”

“With _me_?”

“Yes, Ray.”

“Fraser. Jesus, Fraser.” And before Ben can even register what’s happening, Ray is leaning in and pressing their mouths together. _Kissing_. Ray is _kissing_ him, and, god, if Ben thought Ray’s _hand_ was warm…

Ben lets his mouth fall open, and Ray’s tongue takes advantage, licking, tasting, warming, heating, _thawing—_

“Bro, check it out,” comes a voice from only a few feet away. Ben snaps his head back and looks; it’s a boy, a teenager, gawking openly at them. Beside him, another boy laughs.

And they don’t stop. They don’t do anything. Just laugh and walk away. But it’s more than enough to make Ben realize where they are. Which is to say, in a very public place.

“Car?” says Ray, who’s watching the boys as well.

“Car,” says Ben. “You’re… you’re right. I’ve had far too much to drink.”

“No kidding,” says Ray with a laugh. He starts to walk again, but stops almost immediately. “Listen. Fraser. You wanna stay at mine tonight?”

Ben freezes. “I’m not sure…”

“Not that way,” says Ray quickly. “I just mean on my couch. I mean, like, me making you tea and tucking you in, and then talking in the morning. About… stuff. If you want to.”

Ben should go back to the Consulate. But right now, in light of Ray’s offer, he can’t think _why_ he should go back to the Consulate. And in his current state, the absence of a reason is enough for him to say, “Yes, Ray. I’d like that very much.”

Ray’s eyebrows shoot up. “Whoa. That was easy. I thought I’d have to do more convincing than that.”

Ben considers this. Considers what he knows of himself, and what he knows of the effect that whiskey has on him. He remembers how easy it was, after two glasses, to tell Ray Vecchio about Victoria. All the pain, all the ugliness, all the beauty, without his usual rigid propriety blocking the way. That night wasn’t about closure. It was about honesty.

It was about revealing truth, both to Ray and to himself.

How foolish he’d been tonight, thinking that a glass of the same drink would help him hide a different truth from himself.

How wonderful, to be proven so wrong.

“Perhaps normally,” Ben says at last. “But, as they say, _in vino veritas_.”

“In whiskey _veritas_ ,” counters Ray, with a grin. “In the drink of your choice, there’s so much goddamn fucking _veritas._ ”

Ben smiles back, his heart light. “Ray, I didn’t realize you spoke Latin.”

“I don’t.” Ray loops his arm through Ben’s, and together they walk toward the car. “Just the parts about drinking.”


End file.
